


a great deal of nothing

by billspilledquill



Category: If We Were Villains - M.L. Rio
Genre: Anxiety, F/M, Gen, Homophobia (minor), Identity Issues, M/M, Shakespeare Nerds, whats wrong with me and small fandoms these days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 22:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13580259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: When high-paced poetry became the language, every action became justifiably art, such was the rule of the game.Or, when James found out that Oliver didn’t applied to any of the rules he build himself with, art became useless.





	a great deal of nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crownsandbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/gifts).



> “Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice.“
> 
> The Merchant of Venice - Act I, Scene I
> 
>  
> 
> I know you are probably out of the fandom, but I still want to thank you for your lovely works by writing you some (really) ((srsly don’t get your hopes up)) trashy fics about them. 
> 
> Thank you again! Xxx
> 
> PS: what is canon

 

 

The first time James encountered Shakespeare, he was in seven grade, in a bathroom.

In a public bathroom, really. Not that he was fond of it, but his lungs sucked to be lungs sometimes, and in middle school there was no escape except for the tiny cabins of disinfectants and the _Lucie loves George_ plastered everywhere on the inside doors of the restroom.

He couldn’t quite remember from what he was panicking for at that time. There was always some reason or another, and the familiar ache in his stomach would settle for the day and churn in this sleep. During that round of blurred vision and ragged breathing, he spotted the writing on the bathroom, cut with meticulous care (hard to find sophisticated edges in a school’s bathroom) and he felt the pounding of his heart matching the drums in his head.

 _Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend_  
_Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?_  
_Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend_ ,  
_And being frank, she lends to those are free:_  
_Than, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse_  
_The bounteous largess given thee to give?_

_Fucking teacher and Sakespear to memo_

The note ended here, probably a guy who was bored with it all, since he later realized that the sonnet wasn’t complete and there was some minor errors the person didn’t bother to correct.

He shut his eyes for awhile, waiting for him to stop trembling and just let his head blank for a second. He succeeded mildly, opened his eyes, studied the words with his hands, every cuts and the turns of the letters, breathed.

James stood in that bathroom for a hour, until the lunch break was over. He didn’t eat, for his stomach kept reminding him whatever that happened that made him go in that stupid bathroom in the first place. He didn’t listen to the lessons that day, words were swirling in his head like a hurricane, yet he felt at ease for the first time since a long time. Words never hurt him, people do.

He repeated those lines to himself in the mirror, smiled. He didn’t even know what they meant, and it was in some way comforting.

It was love at first sight, he would later conclude. His father was pleased by his almost frantic digest of Shakespeare, and remarked fondly, _though this be madness, yet there is method in it._ And without looking away from his book, his reply was almost automatic, _Act II, Scene II, father. Cite your sources._

And when his school offered theater option, he embraced the words as his stage. He had always been good at being in someone else’s skin.

 

————

 

To be fair, he had always know that he was a good actor. Smart, possibly, at least that was what people had referred him to. A prince, he would leave soon after the statement, embarrassed and convinced that he would never tell anyone that he felt more at ease playing Horatio than Hamlet. A pretty packaging with a pretty box sounded just too much like him for James to be comfortable.

He had never been a quick learner, but he seemed like one. He had always been a good player.

Yet sometimes, it felt difficult to pretend that words were easy to read. They jumped in the pages like clumsy dancers, and his eyes had would have trouble to follow the rules of reading every line without bypassing one. His hands would tremble and smudge letters with sweat and his feet can’t stop tapping on the floor until he have to close his eyes, rub his temples and try very very hard not to hate himself.

At least, he had the decency to only let that happen in his own room, without making everyone uncomfortable and ruining everything he had built for himself at Dellecher. It was only the beginning of the first year and he was already losing control.

But now he shared a room with a classmate, and there was no way he wouldn’t notice. He wished that the other would be an asshole enough to just pretend nothing happened and let him quietly hope he would die before any of these things went awry.

 _Oh my salad days, when I was green in judgement_ , he thought, when the guy went toward him.

“Uh, are you okay?” His eyes were so stupidly sincere that James averted his eyes, “You are shaking.”

“I am not,” he said, trying very hard to make his fingers to stay in place. That was why biology didn’t make sense, if he can’t control his body, does it matter to know its mechanism?

“But you are.”

“I’m not.” This was getting ridiculous.

“Oh,” he said, shifting his feet. James almost felt bad for him, “but, ah, I think you are having an anxiety attack.”

“I am not having an anxiety attack,” he replied, which was true, since a real one was much worse. “Look, I am just tired from studying, nothing too much, happens to everyone. Thank you for checking on me, uh... ?” He flushed, not knowing how to continue.

“Oliver,” he supplied with a nervous smile, “funny how we share a room but never introduced ourselves. I had always heard you from the first-years girls.”

He breathed a little more easily after that, “Oh, okay.” He paused, then suddenly realized that he needed to say something, “Uh, well, I’m James.”

Oliver laughed, a lovely ringing music, “Yeah, I happen to know that too from the girls. They say you are the only one pretty enough to play both Romeo and Juliet. I guess it’s true.”

James: Not so narcissistic to date myself.  
Oliver: So, it is settled? Are you feeling better?  
James: _What’s gone and what’s past help should be past grief._  
Oliver: I feel like we will be good friends.

They shook hands as if they had some weird diplomat-streak, because they were both cowards not willing to hug. They went to their respective beds, both feeling strangely okay with how things were right now.

And if he fell asleep without shaking and tugging unceasingly at the blanket, it wasn’t because of the soft snores of his classmate on the other side of the room.

 

——————

 

Befriend with his other classmates had taken more efforts than with Oliver.

Not that he was cold or anything, but befriending with people required speaking and smiling and spluttering dark confessions about yourself, and James didn’t know what he should say that wouldn’t make them flinch and go away.

Yet their friendship happened all at once and very slowly at the same time. He still wasn’t really talkative or social around them, but then again, he never was. The fact that he actually can tolerate Alexander’s ramblings or Meredith’s advances was a terrible sign that he was ridiculously comfortable around them.

“Hey, hey!” Alexander cheered, while each of them took place in their cafeteria table, “Lemme let you tell you a secret,” he said, voice dangerously low. James suspected he did that to make people lean closer. “I think Meredith and Richard had a little something going between them. You know,” he shrugged and made a vaguely inappropriate gesture, “ _things_.”

Filipa took a bite at her chopped potato. Food at cafeteria was ranked from scales of bad to kicking Hitler out of art school. “They were loud last night.”

Alexander made a whistle, “Woah, okay. You always hide the most important news, Pip.”

Wren smiled beside her, and James felt his mouth titling upwards. “ _Women of few words are the best women_.”

Alexander: You would be an awesome Henry The Fifth, Wren.  
James: [chokes]

Richard and Meredith eventually came at their table, so they eventually changed topics. “How’s going with Philip, Alexander?” He asked and immediately knew it was a mistake.

Alexander shrugged, “As good as star-crossed lovers are when they are discovered,” he said, eyes trailing on the gray speckled wall behind him. “We broke up.”

“I’m sorry,” Oliver said. That was the thing with sincere people, James thought. They believed that everyone else was sincere.

Richard sneered, “Relationships like _that_ don’t last long,” he said, putting potatoes in his wide opened mouth. He seemed smug and James wanted to punch him. “Good for you.”

Alexander’s expression was blank, “Like _what_ , Richard?”

For a moment no one speak, until Richard let out a biting laugh, “You know,” he said, eyes directing to him and Oliver, “like _that_.”

He felt Oliver flinch beside him, and he dropped his eyes to his plate, not willing to look at everyone. The potatoes were suddenly a very interesting background shift for his eyes.

He heard the subtle shift of Oliver’s chair and proceed to convince himself that no, you should not vomit in front of your classmates, and no, he was not disgusted with _you_ , but with the potatoes. They were disgusting potatoes and they should not exist at all, he concluded, looking at the stabbed food in front of him. They should not exist at all.

 

——————

 

“What the fuck, Alexander?”

James was a rational man of twenty-two, thank you very much, but when things like your-classmate-is-royally-drunk-and-goes-to-your-room-while-your-only-rational-classmate-who-usually-share-your-room-isn’t-here happen, you have to let a man do his swearing.

The said drunk man ran toward him as if he had never seen one, he swung his arms on his shoulder and gripped him like a koala and James froze because he wasn’t used to touching and stuff so he stopped trembling a bit and controlled his breathing and try to find a way to escape and — _oh_ my god Alexander was crying on his shoulder.

He promised he tried, he even put a hand over his shoulder, but his body couldn’t stop shaking and he tried, but his voice couldn’t pretend to be even when someone was this close, “Alexander, get away from me.”

He must have heard him because the bastard just tightened his grip, “Philip,” he whined, “you ar’ usuall _yyy_ very cuddl _yyy_...”

“Fuck off, Alexander, I’m James.”

He pulled off, as much as James’ relief. His eyes scrutinized him in a way that made him feel like he was a dead insect in a microscope. His eyes flashed, and became much sober when he pull off his hands in defeat. “Oh, yeah, uh, okay., so you ar’—“

“James,” he supplied.

“James,” he repeated, tasting the name in his mouth, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he crossed his arms, feeling the need to back away and look at something else other than this terribly vulnerable person in front of him. He didn’t like messing with other people’s privacy. “Do you need something? Water?”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he said, already heading back to the door, “sorry for intruding.”

“It’s okay Alex,” if he realized he used his nickname, he didn’t show it. The churn of his stomach that accompanied him through high school was reminding him of his position, but he said it anyway, almost like a friend, “you are welcome here when you need it.”

The boy blinked, surprised, “Thank you.” He smiled, “And uh, you too, James.”

If he can fire his lungs for inability to function properly, he would. This was being so stupidly real and intimate he was going to get sick. Level five to unlock my nonexistent tragic background, friend.

He waited for him to part, but he didn’t hear the steps. He looked up and Alexander was still here.

“Water?” If Alexander remember any of the words he had said that night he would smashed his head.

“No, it’s just,” he paused, shifted his weight and looked at him in the eye, “just, don’t take Richard’s comment too seriously, okay? You and Oliver are, ah, you know,” he gestured something in the air, “just, don’t take this seriously, okay? There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Sure,” he said, knowing full well how much wrong there was in him, “now go the fuck to sleep.”

He laughed and nodded and just when he was about to close the door and all this madness of heart to heart confession, Oliver came back. Fuck.

“Hey, Oliver Green,” Alexander grinned, back to his state of mild drunkenness, “bye, Oliver Green. Take care of Jamesy.”

His laugh echoed the room, and Oliver stared at him, eyes full of questions. “What was that? I thought making puns about my name is a thing that ended during middle school.”

He did his best to shrug nonchalantly, “You know, the typical plot. Boy meets boy. Broke up with boy. Went into stranger’s room because they are so fucking drunk until the stranger beats the shit out of the boy to get him out of the room.”

“I can hear you from here!” Alexander’s voice across the room.

“Woah, okay,” Oliver laughed and closed the door softly behind him. “So did you get any studying done with Alexander’s interlude?”

“No,” it was not Alexander that made studying impossible. Stupid letters that can’t sit still, “want to study together?”

“Tired,” Oliver said, “tomorrow?”

“It is about Meredith?” He blurted out, and there was no taken back. He forced himself to look at Oliver but he was averting his eyes. _It is._

Surprisingly, Oliver spoke, his eyes far away, “Not that I loved Caesar less, but I loved Rome more.” They both knew who Caesar and Rome were in this story. “Let’s go to sleep.”

Before he fell to whatever dream he was destined to be hunted to, he said softly to the air, “I wonder if they will cast you Brutus in fourth year, you will be an honorable one.”

When he didn’t get any reply (not that he wanted to, anyway), he drifted to sleep and hoped he didn’t say any of the things he said that day. That he could stop figuratively and/or physically puking words or other substances for every little thing in his life.

(At two in the morning, his stomach happily proved him wrong.)

 

———————

 

It was a sunny day, so he decided to just sit on their room’s common sofa, a book in hand, lazily closed his eyes for a moment, and try to relax under the warm glowing light of the early morning. _War and Peace_ sat lightly on his lap, pages light in his hands. It was a good day, he could afford to read and words wouldn’t mock him by running away.

The third year members were announced, and he did make the cut. He hummed, a little joyful noise from the back of his throat, _Pierre was right when he said that one must believe in the possibility of happiness in order to be happy, and I now believe in it. Let the dead bury the dead, but while I'm alive, I must live and be happy._

“James,” Oliver entered, a sappy grin on his face, it would be impossible not to return it. “Congratulations!”

“You too, Oliver,” he said, not moving from his seat. He didn’t mind if Oliver sat down with him, he just wasn’t sure if the sun would hurt his eyes. He had pretty eyes.

“Did you see Meredith and Alexander?” He asked, “They also pass the cut!”

“Oh,” he said, eyes returning to his book, what was Pierre saying again? “Great. I haven’t seen her,” he added, “probably celebrating with Richard or something.”

“Alexander is getting high or drunk, you choose.” The sun did hurt his eyes, he thought, so there was no question that Oliver should sit here too. Maybe he should walk outside or just sleep. It was a sunny day, “Wren and Filippa are no where to be seen. You know we are having a party this evening, right? They will all be there.”

They didn’t mention Richard, it felt right.

“Of course,” he said, approaching, “mind if we rehearse a comedy to prepare ourselves? For fun.” But Oliver’s eyes were filled with self-doubt and James agreed because the sun was starting to make his eyes burn. _For next year_. _War and Peace_ lied quietly on the sofa, words sleeping themselves to death.

“Which one do you want?”

“ _Twelfth Night_ , is it okay?” He asked, the worn copy already in his hand, “Act I, Scene V, between Viola and Olivia. Thought we could do a thing we probably would never do, lest the school goes crazy and decides to do a gender-switched play.” He handed him the copy, their fingers brushing. “But this school is a hell of a place, so who knows.”

He nodded, eyes skimming through the scene, “I will do Olivia,” when he saw Oliver’s questioning glance, he smacked his head with the copy, “Viola gets more lines in that scene. You are the one who wants to practice in the first place. Besides, I want a more colored resume when I graduate, so it’s for the best.”

Oliver laughed, pleased and eyes twinkled with mirth, “I am glad you are not making a pun with my name, _Olivia_.”

“Oh please, I prithee,” James said, “I shall go fetch my copy.”

When he returned, he saw Oliver’s smile, pliant and ready to woo. He was in his role.

“ _The honorable lady of the house, which is she?_ ”

James’ eyes changed to one of caution and seeded grief, “ _Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?_ ”

He bent down and kissed his hand, what the _fuck_ ,

“ _Most radiant, exquisite and unmatchable beauty,_  
_I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house,_  
_for I never saw her; I would be loath to cast away_  
_my speech, for besides that it is excellently well_  
_penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good_  
_beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very_  
_compatible, even to the least sinister usage_.”

His eyes were so earnest, and that was the thing about earnest people, that unless you are named Earnest, Oscar Wilde was going to hijack you and show the impotence of Victorian England and get trials for sodomy.

“ _Whence came you, sir?_ ” He crossed his arms, eyeing Oliver with a suspicious matter. His smile didn’t flatter, he still hold his hand as if he was scared he might break.

Olivier:  
_I can say little more than I have studied, and that_  
_question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me_  
_modest assurance if you be the lady of the house,  
that I may proceed in my speech_.

James:  
_Are you a comedian?_

Oliver:  
_No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs  
of malice I swear, I am not that I play._

He caressed his hand as if it was his to play with. He was truly emerged in his role, James’ mind supplied.

_I am not that I play._

James rarely didn’t felt in his role. Probably because he was content that day. Actors can’t perform if they were too content, it killed the character.

He waited for Viola’s next line, but it never came, so he continued, trying to make his flushed cheeks look like some decent acting, “ _If I do not usurp myself, I am the lady of the house._ ”

“ _Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp/ yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours/ to reserve._ ” he said leading him a bit closer, smiled shyly, “ _But this is from my commission: I will/ on with my speech in your praise, and then show you/ the heart of my message._ ”

He looked at him as if he was in love, but Oliver was never a perfect actor. There will be some faults somewhere. It will come. The Duke. He closed his eyes for a fraction of second, trying to achieve self-alienation.

“ _Come to what is important in’t: I forgive you the praise._ ” Olivia’s eyes went a little brighter, a bit pleased and the grief in her eyes lessened. She will fell for her, this was how the story went.

“ _Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ‘tis poetical._ ” There was a high flush on Viola’s cheeks, the self-doubt in her eyes gone. Good god, she even looked a bit smug.

Actors will always bring a piece of themselves on stage. They were not on a stage.

There was always some sort of magic in the art of performing, he thought. Something compelling in following the rules of the game. He loves her, she loves him, they separate due to improbable fate. Or it can be she loves him not, he loves her, they get together due to improbable fate. It felt so much easier to have lines prepared in your head, knowing your enters and exits, so easy for the wind to blow southerly even when the boat headed for west.

When high-paced poetry became the language, every action became justifiably art, such was the rule of the game.

Then when art became useless in return, trees can talk. “Richard, enjoying the show?”

Olivier let go of his hand as if he was burned. So it goes. Richard was leaning on the side door, smirking, “As much as you two are _enjoying_ yourselves, I assume.”

“Why are you even here in the first place?” He said, “aren’t you suppose to go all lovely-dovey with Meredith somewhere in the wild wood?” Oliver flinched beside him. _The Duke_.

Richard sneered, but managed to control his emotions just enough, “I guess that’s none of your business, James. You’re too small for these kind of things.”

“If you are mocking my height, I will consider murder.”

“No, no,” his eyes brightened, “talking about other... length.” He turned his heels and went downstairs, barking, “Get your asses downstairs! The party is starting without you guys, and unless you want to make out here, your presences are mandatory.”

After the laughter fainted, James turned and reluctantly locked eyes with Olivier. He was comforted by the controlled amusement in his expression, bright and a bit nervous.

“I swear I will kill you if you find it funny.”

But they were letting out a helpless chuckle together, Olivier’s permanent self-doubt creeping back in his eyes. All play and players forgotten. “Sorry, didn’t know you had a Napoleon complex.”

They bickered lightheartedly, and went downstairs. The worn copy of _Twelfth Night_ lay lifelessly on the floor, James sure as hell won’t open it for a long time.

_I am not what I play._

Olivier was so much more than what he played, and he hoped in hell that he would never see it, _beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse the bounteous largess given thee to give?_

 _Given_ , he saw Oliver’s eyes glistening under the dim kitchen light, Meredith’s hand on Richard back. _A Nature's bequest._

“Hey,” he said in a moment of dizziness, the artificial blind spot produced by the alcohol, “do you want go to the river? It’s too nosy here.”

Olivier smiled, a thing that made the air solid. He didn’t even try to breathe. _A beauty’s legacy._

“I’m not swimming naked in the river again, though.” He swung the bottle in his hand a little, a joyful jump. “Let’s go.”

 _Yes_ , he thought. The sky was a deep blue, swallowing them whole. _Yes_. Olivier’s eyes bluer and deeper than the boundless river in front of them, his heart palpitating at the same beat of their dance with the wind.

 _Yes_.

 

————————

 

The first thing he did when Oliver woke up next to him was screaming.

Internal screaming, at first. A small part of him knew it was a dream. He softly pinched Oliver’s nose until the latter started to hyperventilate, hands trying to grasp the air. James stopped, eyes scanning at his surroundings. Nice windows.

“Sorry,” he muttered, still confused by the dimensional viability of this place. Didn’t he already took off that disgusting poster?

“Sure you are,” he replied, still choking over himself, “you almost kill me, Jamesy.”

James laughed, as one should do, “ _O Jamesy,_ ” he said, “ _let me up out of this!_ ”

“Don’t ever think that quoting Joyce will make me forgive you,” he said, and all was forgiven.

Then came the usual cliched moment of sharing a bedroom — the sun streaming down at his friend’s face, the soft yellow light framing his face, his clear eyes — translucent and speckled with gold and finally he, he would sat down, aghast at everything that created and composed this, bones strained at the lives Oliver had not played and should be.

Needless to say that nothing was like this except for the last part. Their bond had nothing even remotely beautiful, for earnestness had nothing to do with honesty and everything to do with hard-boiled loyalty, and everyone who even glanced at a Shakespearean tragedy knew that loyalty will only belong to secondary characters, for streams of consciousness only made things half-done.

“James,” he called, “you coming?”

“Yeah,” he said, failing not to think about how warm it would be if their hands were linked instead of his limping uselessly on his sides, “just wait a second, I’m always a half-step behind you.”

“ _Faithful friends are hard to find_ ,” Olivier said, smiling. _Like the wind,_ James thought, _like the wind._

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
